The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [91]
“I don’t understand.”
“Did he take notes?”
“Pardon?”
“Some people use notebooks. Seems very old-fashioned, I know.”
“Why is this important?”
“I’m just saying that if you become aware of anything or if you discover any sensitive materials they would be better off in the bank’s hands than any third party.”
“By ‘third party’ you mean the police?”
Mr. Weil puts down his pen and leans back, lacing his fingers together on his stomach like a man about to pontificate on the state of the world.
“People don’t like banks, Mrs. North. They’ll happily rake up muck or blow things out of proportion. Do you understand what I’m saying? If you have confidential information—either written or passed on orally—it remains the intellectual and commercial property of the bank. If your husband whispered any secrets in the bedroom, or made any remarks about Mersey Fidelity, you should be wary of repeating them.”
Elizabeth hesitates. The lawyer wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. It’s a nervous, almost reptilian mannerism.
“Who do you work for, Mr. Weil?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who is paying you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Are you here to represent Mersey Fidelity or me?”
The lawyer pauses with the pen resting on the page. “I have been retained by Mersey Fidelity.”
“I see.”
Rising slowly from the table, unsteady at first, Elizabeth moves to the door. “Thank you for your advice, Mr. Weil, I won’t be needing your services anymore.”
What she wants to say is thank you for the lesson in sophistry and doublespeak. Thank you for riding roughshod over my marriage and my husband’s reputation. Thank you for showing me what I’m up against.
Mr. Weil tries to argue, but Elizabeth stops him.
“Leave now or I’ll tell the police exactly what you’ve asked me to do.”
The overweight lawyer is no longer smiling. He packs his briefcase and departs, moving along the corridor without swinging his arms.
Moments later Campbell Smith takes his place in the interview room and begins asking Elizabeth questions. There is a pattern to them. Politely put, but aimed at picking apart her marriage like a cheap sweater. Her phone calls, her emails, her friendships… They have copies of her bank statements. They want to know about North’s parents in Spain, his friends, properties he might own or places he liked to visit. Did he gamble? Did he have any secret accounts? Where did they holiday?
“Does your husband have a share portfolio?”
“A small one.”
“What about offshore bank accounts?”
“No.”
“Have you ever visited the Middle East?”
She mentions the holiday in Lebanon and Jordan. This triggers another line of questioning.
“What do you think has happened to your husband, Mrs. North?”
“I have no idea.”
“You must have a theory.”
“No.”
A figure is mentioned: fifty-four million pounds. Elizabeth has no idea where it comes from. The TV report had referred to a black hole. Missing money. More numbers. North had been worried about something. He told Bridget Lindop that he’d done something terrible.
Campbell continues to question Elizabeth about the family finances.
“Do you really think my husband would steal £54 million and then bother taking my jewelry? He didn’t pack a suitcase. He didn’t take any clothes.”
“He took his passport,” says Campbell.
“All our passports were taken.”
“Maybe you were all going to run away.”
Elizabeth wants to laugh, but can’t clear the ball of anger that is lodged in her throat.
“You seem to be missing the obvious. I’m pregnant. I can’t fly anywhere.”
Campbell isn’t going to back off.
“You made a statement to police in which you described your husband as acting strangely. You hired a private detective. Perhaps you overheard him on the phone or read his emails…”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Mrs. North. You thought he was scratching some other woman’s itch, yet you never once spied on him or asked him what he was up to or looked in his diary or checked his receipts.”
Elizabeth feels her face flush. Tears close. “I hired a private detective—I thought that would be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“My husband did not steal that